Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/206

150 XXXVIII

sinks the summer evening now

In scattered glory round;

The sky upon its holy brow

Wears not a cloud that speaks of gloom.

The old tower, shrined in golden light,

Looks down on the descending sun;

So softly evening blends with night,

You scarce can say when day is done.

And this is just the joyous hour

When we were wont to burst away

T' escape from labour's tyrant power

And cheerfully go out to play.

Then why is all so sad and lone?

No merry footstep on the stair,

No laugh, no heart-awaking tone,

But voiceless silence everywhere.

I've wandered round our garden ground,

And still it seemed at every turn

That I should greet approaching feet,

And words upon the breezes hung.